


Best to Take the Moment Present

by Roga



Category: Home Again (2017)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Multi, Post-Movie, Threesome - F/M/M, fumbling towards OT3, mostly a lot of flirting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-17
Updated: 2018-12-17
Packaged: 2019-09-21 12:27:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17043725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roga/pseuds/Roga
Summary: In the end, to no one’s bigger surprise than her own, it’s Austen who rolls his eyes behind the Saturday morning Times and says, “For god’s sake, Alice, just sleep with the kid, even I can’t take it anymore.”





	Best to Take the Moment Present

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rsadelle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rsadelle/gifts).



In the end, to no one’s bigger surprise than her own, it’s Austen who rolls his eyes behind the Saturday morning Times and says, “For god’s sake, Alice, just sleep with the kid, even I can’t take it anymore.”

She’s never managed to completely train her face not to react when Austen’s trying to get a rise out of her, but she at least does a much better job at it than George, who gracefully spittakes milk in the general vicinity of his cereal bowl.

Alice instinctively glances outside to make sure the girls are still there. There are, playing soccer with Teddy on the sun-drenched lawn. Harry’s jogging up to join them, shirtless.

Harry’s been shirtless a lot, lately. It’s been… difficult.

For a moment his pair of bright eyes meet her look, and Alice tears her gaze away, back to George, who’s stopped coughing, and Austen, a picture of smug nonchalance sitting at the kitchen table.

Austen flips a page in the paper. “I’m just saying, I’m in the bloody music industry and even I’m not used to these levels of sexual tension. If you want, I’ll take the girls for a weekend, and you can—” He clicks his tongue.

“You know what’s sad?” Alice says, standing up to pour herself another cup of much needed coffee, and more importantly, attempt to hide a blush she isn’t quite managing to control. “That’s probably the most thoughtful thing you’ve said to me in the past five years, _and_ the most interest you’ve shown in my sex life. But please,” she says pointedly, “do me a favor and mind your own business.”

Austen lifts his hands a little in a surrendering motion, that annoying smirk not really leaving his face. Alice grabs a towel, not really sure yet whether she’s going to start cleaning up or throw it in Austen’s face (the girls aren’t looking, it’s allowed), when George scoots back his chair and says, “Hey, no, sit back down, let me,” and starts clearing the table.

“Thanks,” she says, pressing the towel into his hands when he collects it on his way to the sink. He really is sweet, she thinks. He’d remembered they were out of the strawberry jam Rosie liked last week, stopped by the market on his way over this morning to get it. He’s got some jam smeared on his hand now, she sees, a by product of loading dishes in the washer, and it’s incredibly unhygienic but she can’t quite stop staring as he licks it off the back of his fingers before bringing them back under the water.

She hears Austen snort. “Not to mention—” he starts.

“Zip it,” she says.

He does. She doesn’t think George noticed anything. Not that there was anything to notice.

*

Here’s the thing. It’s been six months since, by some fairytale stroke of luck, because this isn’t how things _happen_ in this town, the boys managed to get funding for their movie. Five months since George stopped wrestling with rewrites every night. Three months since pre-production began; two since the casting sessions did. Six weeks since Darcy Kemp got attached to the project, and suddenly there was interest from the press, and a small studio that wanted the boys doing marketing before shooting even began, and invitations to parties and events because that’s what Hollywood’s good at.

Alice tries not to notice, but it’s hard to miss the fact that Harry never dates.

He’s there for brunch, almost every weekend. He’ll come around to watch the girls – rarely, these days, but he’s come by in a pinch when she’s needed to rush off to meet a client. He’ll join them for movies at home every once in a while, sitting next to her, spreading his arm wide and resting it on the back of the couch, close enough for her to feel the warmth radiating through his thin shirts without actually touching. And his phone on the table will light up with a text or a call, caller IDs showing Instagram profiles or black-and-white headshots of airbrushed twenty-five-year old beauties, and he’ll mute his phone and flip it over to block out the light with a sheepish “Sorry”, and continue being there, a solid presence on her couch, just out of reach, smelling painfully, frustratingly good.

There’s a part of her – a small, greedy part that she mostly tries to rise above – that likes the fact that he’s still single; that as far as she knows, he hasn’t been with anyone else since they were together. That the small smiles he'll give her under long lashes, the private glances across the room, still mean something more. 

But it’s not fair to be pleased, not when she doesn't intend to do anything about it. Not when there’s no real difference between the way things are now and the way were a year ago. Not when Harry needs to be living his life and, and maturing through relationships with people his age.

Not when Harry’s not the only one that she wants.

*

She doesn’t mean to get drunk. But it’s the boys’ going away party — for values of ‘going away’ that mean ‘heading upstate to shoot on location for three weeks, and values of ‘party’ that mean — well, a legit pool party at Darcy Kemp’s, Alice is pretty sure she was standing in line at the bar behind some non-royal from Suits earlier — and she somehow finds herself once again in a cocktail dress and enough cocktails to justify the name, sitting barefoot and tired on a green-cushioned garden bench, slumped against George’s warm, familiar shoulder. 

Harry’s by the pool, talking to — Alice knows this, she’s heard them mention the cast often enough. It’s the actress who’s going to play Joan’s sister. Her name is Joan. That’s gotta be confusing. 

He’s laughing at something Joan’s-sister-Joan just said. There’s a white towel thrown around his neck, bringing out his skin, and his hair is still dripping water from his swim earlier. His top half is golden and glistening, and his bottom half is just a lot of… very muscular thigh. 

Alice really hopes she isn’t saying any of this out loud.

Harry laughs again, and maybe he senses that she’s looking at him, because he turns to meet her eyes. He’s a little too far to tell, but something in her recognizes his expression. She knows that he’s blushing. 

“You know,” she definitely doesn’t mean to say, “your friend Harry there. He is really very pretty.”

George chuckles. His shoulder shakes with it. “I know,” he agrees.

“Too pretty for his own good.”

“Probably.”

She’d asked Harry once why he never stepped in front of the camera, with a face like his. Why he only wanted to stay behind the scenes. He loved film, he’d said, wanted to make movies any way he could. But, he confessed, embarrassed, he didn’t want to be that guy who coasted by on his looks. He wanted to be taken seriously, to prove himself. He didn’t want to just be a pretty face.

He doesn’t mind using that pretty face as a weapon when he’s in Alice’s house, though. At least not recently.

“I think Harry’s trying to seduce me,” she says. She feels George’s jaw shift by her hair. 

“Oh, yeah?”

“I think he keeps breaking my cabinet so he can fix it. Like, okay, I know it worked that _one time_ , but come on, my house isn’t in that bad shape.”

George laughs this time. “No one ever accused Harry of being subtle.”

“He is very persistent.”

“Well, that is how he got us funded, in the end.”

She frowns. “He seduced your producer?”

“No! No, he - I meant, persistency.”

Oh. That makes more sense. “And your script,” she adds.

“What?”

She taps a finger on his thigh. “You wrote a brilliant script, George, take some credit.”

“I—thank you. That’s sweet of you to say.”

She elbows him. “Not sweet, fact. You know you’re good.”

“Oh, I’m a writer, I’m insecure about everything,” he clarifies.

“You shouldn’t be. Look at this.” She gestures at the party, like Aladdin on the roofs of Agrabah: look at your domain. The dancers, the drinkers, the movers and makers. “The world is your...” She knows there’s a word for this. She waves her hand again. “Clam.”

He nudges her. “It’s your clam too, you know.”

“No,” she sighs. Her birthday’s coming up again. She’s not the crying mess she was last year — and with last year’s birthday having brought more good into the world than she could have possibly imagined, she has no excuse — but the clock is ticking, and she knows the score. “This clam is for the young people.”

He snorts. “You’re young.”

“Young, hot people.”

George takes a slow drink from his beer. She can feel it when he swallows. Can feel it reverberate in his chest when he says, “You’re plenty hot.”

Well Jesus, _I sure am now_ , she thinks, heat rushing to her face, feeling a low throbbing between her legs. 

She doesn’t raise her head, afraid of what she’ll see if she looks into his eyes. She doesn’t leave, though, but lets herself stay, leaning quietly against him, breathing together, hand still resting on his thigh.

*

They text photos from set to the Kinney family group chat; dumb selfies from a craft services lunch, abstract shots of lighting rigs, Teddy posing in costume, Harry and George leaning over a monitor to review dailies. Iz and Rosie get so excited every time the chat pings, demanding that Alice respond at once. When she does, someone always finds the time to answer; usually, admittedly, Teddy who gets actor downtime, or George, who as screenwriter is really one of the most useless people on set. 

Harry texts her too. _Didn’t know it’d be this hard_ , and Don’t think I’ve ever felt this high in my life, and _Thinking of you. We all miss you_ and _Wish you were here._

One day, he texts her a photo of George. In it, George is looking down at his phone with such fondness that it almost takes her breath away.

 _Keep texting him,_ Harry says. _I like him like this._

She’s not sure what to say. The icon shows that Harry’s still typing, though, so she waits, and waits, until a new text finally appears.

_You know, George and I always did have a tendency to fall for the same women._

*

A day later, Harry texts her: _So George tells me Austen’s actually rooting for us three._

She says: _Focus on your movie, Har._

He sends her back a gif of Captain America saluting, which, great, is just what she needs in her life: unreasonably attractive men to distract her.

It’s hard not to let that flicker of excitement grow, though. At some point, she stops trying to stop it.

*

When it finally happens, it’s easier than she thought it would be. 

The girls are at her mom’s for the night, and Harry and George show up together, each with their own flavor of tight jeans and clean-pressed shirts unbuttoned once more than necessary, exposing tanned chests, and they are good, and they are there, and they like her so much, and it’s her _birthday_.

It’s barely halfway through the evening when the three of them make their way into her bedroom, dropping items of clothing along the way.

“God, I’ve missed this, I’ve missed _you_ ” Harry says, and it’s like he’s reading her mind, because it’s all she can think: she’s _missed this_ , can’t figure out what she wants to do more, run her hands all over his skin or lie back and let him show her with his hands and his mouth just how much he wants her.

She leans back against the pillows. Harry kisses down her jaw, hot, open mouthed kisses that trail down her clavicle and back up again, his right hand stroking down her shoulder, his left hand cupping her breast. His thumb brushes her nipple, and she whimpers, she’s so turned on. She brings her hands down to his hair, tangled and damp with sweat, and pushes his head down, directing him to her other breast. For a moment, he just licks around the areola, circles in and licks over her nipple, until he takes it into his mouth and sucks. “God,” she gasps, eyes squeezing shut, “that feels good, keep doing that.”

She runs her fingers through Harry’s hair, pulling it a little, and he groans, a ripple going through his body as he grinds against the mattress.

“George,” she says, reaching out with a hand, “Come here,” and then George is there, his eyes a dark gray and gorgeous, and he’s kissing her like he’s been waiting to do it for months, despite making out just five minutes ago until they finally broke off for at least long enough to get their clothes off.

“Let me,” he breathes between kisses, “I wanna go down on you, can I—”

“Yes,” she says, and she feels herself clench, squeezes her thighs just to get some friction. “Please, yes.”

George skims his fingers down her body, following it with his mouth. He lingers over her right breast, which Harry is playing with steadily; pauses to lick her in between Harry’s fingers and blow, which makes her shiver; she really hadn’t remembered her breasts being that sensitive.

And then he continues making his path down, until he settles at the bottom of the bed. He folds her knees, then skims his fingers down her thighs, gently spreading them open. He leans down, and she can feel him breathe warmly against her. She tries not to hold her breath.

“George, _please_ , she says, and then gasps when Harry squeezes and sucks just as George puts his mouth on her, searing heat like a coordinated attack that makes her arch off the bed. She raises one hand to the headboard just to have something to clench on that won’t injure anyone. 

She knows she’s already on the edge. George licks her clit and sucks, and Harry comes up and kisses her, says, “Fuck, you’re so hot,” and pinches her nipple just as George slides two fingers into her, and that’s it, she’s coming, feels the wave of pleasure crash over her body, making her toes curl and leaving her breathless and drained, leaving nothing for a moment but a feeling of deep contentment, settling down to her core. 

“Happy birthday,” Harry says, soft and affectionate, voice so low that it’s almost a whisper. 

Alice smiles.

*

In the end, to no one’s bigger surprise than her own, Austen lives up to his promise — or, perhaps, his reluctant yet extremely smug offer — of taking the girls for a long weekend. 

She doesn’t know yet where it’s going, but Alice’s forty-second year sets off to a very good start.


End file.
